Just Be Held
by Viva Raine
Summary: "Sometimes they were past events, coming back to haunt him. Sometimes it was the future, outcomes he knew were a possibility with the kind of life they led. Sometimes they were only vague feelings, but those were the worst, because they lingered long after he opened his eyes. And they were never of himself; always of his family." Or, May and Skye help Phil deal with his emotions.
1. Chapter 1

Hey again everyone! Still kinda nervous about posting this lol... but then, I'll just go for it :P

Note: This fic is based loosely on a few lyrics (bolded lines) from the song _Just Be Held, _by Casting Crowns. Not beta-read, so there might be typos... Oh, also... I have no experience with panic attacks, or any medical information outside a bit of research, so apologies if things aren't accurate. There'll be one more chapter after this :D

_**Hold it all together, everybody needs you strong. **_

* * *

As the director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Phil Coulson was privileged with many things, including the most elite team in the agency, the latest technology available, and a practically unlimited budget. Courtesy of the fact that most people thought him dead, he enjoyed a certain level of anonymity as well.

But one thing that hadn't been included in the theoretical recruitment letter was the insane amount of responsibility he felt for the young lives in his care. The heavy guilt that weighed him down every time one of the team was hurt, that made him ask, "What did I do wrong?" every time. The almost paternal love that washed over him whenever he saw Skye struggling to find an identity, Ward hiding his shaken tears, Jemma and Fitz flirting with each while denying they were in love. It was nothing he had signed up for.

And then there were the nightmares. _It's normal_, the doctors told him. _Get over it,_ he yelled at himself. _You're not alone_, May assured him. But it sure felt like he was, as he fumbled for the switch of his bedside lamp and fought to control his trembling.

Sometimes they were past events, coming back to haunt him. Sometimes it was the future, outcomes he knew were a possibility with the kind of life they led. Sometimes they were only vague feelings, but those were the worst, because they lingered long after he opened his eyes. And they were never of himself; always of his family.

Not his real family, of course, the one he didn't have. He'd had a little sister, but for all he knew, she could be working in the room next door and he'd never know; she'd been kidnapped long before he'd been old enough to act. He'd had a girlfriend once, too, a cellist, but she thought he was dead and he didn't know many women who enjoyed dating ghosts.

So, no, these nightmares were always the predator of his family-at-heart. Also known as, his team. Ward, like his oldest son, someone who took after his hidden need for love, and understood his reasons for keeping it all in. Jemma and Leo, like his twins, in a way, adorable and smart, personifying the relationship he could have had with his sister. Sweet and genuine, so childlike and innocent. Skye, like his baby girl, the daughter he'd always longed for, the one who knew how to curl her hair and play tough all at once. Sassy, but compassionate. Hurt, but doing her best to overcome it.

And May…. he wasn't quite sure who May was in his life. Sometimes she was his sister, and they'd compete over stupid things, laugh over old-school movie puns. Sometimes she was almost his mother, stroking his hair when he was sick and kissing his forehead as he fell asleep. And sometimes, his favorite times, she was like his wife, if he dared to let her that close, waiting up all night for him to return to the Bus, and holding him up as he fell apart.

It was this May that his nightmares had chosen to target tonight, and he wanted nothing more to creep into her room and assure himself that she was still alright. He wanted to watch her chest rise up and down, wanted to feel her pulse, strong and steady, wanted to warm his ice-cold hands by placing them in hers. If he had it his way, he'd curl up under her blanket, let her wrap her arms around him, cry into her shoulder and trust that no one else would ever know.

"May," he whispered, although it sounded more like a whimper, even to his own ears. "I can't...I can't…."

In the back of his mind, he wondered who he was talking to. To his demons, maybe, the ones that never ceased to accuse him of being a killer, a failure, a waste. To those who told him that he was stronger than this, that he was better than this, that he should be good enough to do life alone. To everyone that made it abundantly clear that he was the leader, the captain. That he didn't get to be human, didn't get to have weaknesses, that he didn't deserve love or someone to hold him together.

It didn't matter, in the end, whom he was fighting with. Because he believed them anyway.

* * *

_**But life hits you out of nowhere and barely leaves you holding on. **_

* * *

_Agent Coulson, _they'd said, _is your team strong enough for this?_

_We can handle this, _he'd said.

_We've got this, _he'd said.

_I know the risks, _he'd said.

A lot of good it did him now, to know the risks, when he couldn't prevent them. When his team got hurt, because he wasn't fast enough to keep them safe. When he was curled up in a chair beside May's bed, anxiously toying with the cuffs of his sleeves and raking his mind for everything he might've done wrong. He didn't know which was worse - the fact that a member of his team came so close to dying, or that she was still unconscious, looking as near to dead as one could when still alive. He reached out to touch her, to assure himself that she was still breathing, still healing, but her hands were as ice-cold as his own.

"May!" he hissed, wanting to scream but too tired for more than a whisper. His breathing hitched, and quickened, but there was nothing he could do.

"_Agent Coulson, the doctors are requesting you." _

"_Breathe, Phil, it's okay." _

"_I... don't know what we can do..__." _

His mind clashed with his heart; fears melted into facts; reality twisted into nightmares.

"_You have failed me, Philip." _

"_Wait, wait, don't leave me! Please! Don't...don't go!" _

"_It's a magical place…. It's a magical place…. It's a magical place." _

He didn't have time for this; he didn't have the freedom for this; he didn't even have the energy for this. He was an agent, a level _eight _agent, in fact, and he didn't freak out. He didn't cry, he didn't have panic attacks. Whatever was happening now just really, really looked like it.

_It's all your fault, _some voice told him, and he agreed, without even know what it was referring to. Perhaps the fact that May had taken the bullet for him. Maybe it was forcing her back into combat, bringing back old and faded memories, in the selfish hope the old May he'd once known was still hidden in there. It could even have very likely been that he had even formed a team in the first place, desperate to prove himself still worthy of the respect he'd once had. Desperate for a family. Desperate for love, in any form.

This kind of thing had never happened before he'd "died". Had Loki messed with his mind, when he'd stabbed him in the heart? Was it the result of being here, and then there, and then back here again, that had softened him? Was it the family he'd surrounded himself with, that he'd become so attached to? Was it the fact that the bubble he thought he'd placed his team in, had been so violently and abruptly broken? He supposed he'd never know; that was then, and there was no going back. He had no place to be but the now.

Which also happened to be where he was experiencing his non-panic attack, struggling for breath and clutching the armrests of his medbay chair so hard his fingers were white. Where May was fighting for her life against a bullet wound in her chest and the infection that'd set in, battling a raging fever and a concussion at the same time. Where the monitor was beeping, steadily, comfortingly, but Phil knew that if it so much as stuttered, he would collapse. He heard the footsteps echoing in the empty hallway that passed by May's room, but they didn't really register. He watched the handle turn, and the crack between the door and the wall grow larger until he could see who was behind it.

"Skye," he greeted her, feeling somewhat detached and automatic, his mind still whirling with memories and haunted with nightmares. He buried them down, pushed them away. He wouldn't fall apart in front of his baby girl. He had to be strong, for her, for everyone.

But _really, _it was hard. To pretend you were okay, when you certainly weren't. To act like a professional, when you felt like a child. To stand tall in a suit and tie when all you really wanted was to curl up on someone's lap and have them assure that it would all be alright. It was hard to have the roles reversed.

"H-hey." He managed to cover up the stutter with a cough, but he was sure she'd heard it. "What are you...what are you doing here?"

Her eyes were slightly red, like she'd been unable to hold in a few tears, but hadn't allowed herself to cry. She ignored the question. "You missed dinner."

Phil shook his head, and his stomach flipped. "Not hungry."

Skye sank into the chair beside him, her almost uninterested attitude seeming to unravel as she did so. "Figured," she whispered. "Neither was I. Even Ward didn't really eat, and that's saying something." She leaned her head on Phil's shoulder, and he really wished she'd stop pretending that he cared about the way his team had eaten dinner.

She seemed to get the idea, and she blinked rapidly a few times before allowing the tears to finally fall. But instead of asking the question he thought she would, instead of inquiring after May's status, she turned to him.

"Are you okay?"

He should have known she would ask that. He should have known she would come in here just as he was coming apart. He should have never let himself become this soft, this weak, never let his team into danger, never risked May's life just so he could try and bring her old self back out.

It was stupid, so stupid, and now May was hurt, almost dead, and...and...and….

"AC…. Phil...come on...breathe!"

He gasped back into reality, to find himself in that same stupid chair, in that same stupid room, with the two women who meant the most to him in the whole world. And the one that was like his daughter, looking thoroughly confused and more than anxious.

"Did you...did you just...have a..._panic attack?_" She sounded incredulous, like she'd been sure he was immune to such human-like things.

Phil exhaled sharply, and it audibly shook. "I...I don't know. Maybe."

She leaned forward slightly, eyeing him sideways. "Has it ever happened before?"

_Great. Now she's going to go all protective. The last thing I need right now is for her to call Simmons and have her perform all kinds of tests on me. _"No, not before today."

She was still giving him that 'why-aren't-we-doing-anything' look that he'd grown so used to seeing. "Is that okay?"

Feeling his strong facade slowly crumbling, Phil sighed, shaking his head and refusing to make eye contact with Skye in case the love he knew he'd see in her brown eyes brought tears into his own. "I don't know. I don't think so. Don't tell Jemma."

"You need...like, help, I don't know, something," she protested. It wasn't easy to watch the strongest man she knew being reduced to shaky breaths and guilty thoughts, like a broken toy that repeated the same thing over and over and over again.

Her mouth opened a little, involuntarily, as she realized what was happening. "Listen, AC. You know that…. You know you don't have to do this alone, right? That's why you've got a team, a- a…. Family. We've got your back." Her confident voice dropped to nearly a whisper, but Phil couldn't tell whether it was because the gravity of their situation had suddenly caught up to her, or because he was sure she could tell that he was about to cry. "You don't have to fight alone."

A tear fell, but he brushed it away roughly with the hard cuff of his jacket sleeve.

_You don't have to fight alone, _she'd said.

_But I do, _his broken heart said back.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey again!

So honestly, I don't even really know what happened in this chapter :P It gets kind of dark...? Sort of...? I feel like I'm portraying Phil as being so weak and helpless, which was not my original intention and not the way I see him at all. Like I said, I'm not even sure where this came from ;) Anyways, enjoy!

_**You're not alone; stop holding on….**_

* * *

It wasn't everyday that Phil Coulson's desk was empty of unfinished paperwork, that he wasn't being called into action, or that he couldn't argue with himself that he had somewhere else better to be than locking himself into the shooting range and practicing until he thought his arm might drop. It wasn't often that such a high-ranking agent got time to over-think their every action from the past month, unless they did so in the dead of night, like so many of them did.

But S.H.I.E.L.D. executives had decided that Coulson's team had needed a break, so here they were, enjoying an incognito trip to Spain. Well, some of them were enjoying it, anyways. Others didn't quite see the empty down-time as any form of vacation.

With every second that they weren't fighting came a harsh reminder that Melinda May, the _Caval__ry_, was still uncleared for combat, still healing from her nearly fatal wound that by all accounts should have been Phil's. Theoretically, he could have been anywhere; Jemma and Fitz had taken the opportunity to act like normal people for once, checking out the various shops that lined the streets and attempting to make some friends (despite their nonexistent knowledge of the language); Skye was surely multi-tasking, most likely trying to sample the native cuisine and hack into someone's Netflix account at the same time; Ward had locked himself into his bunk with a stack of books, but Phil wasn't too concerned. He'd never really been a social kind of guy, and Coulson was willing to bet he had plenty of bad memories from every corner of the earth.

He hadn't seen May all day either, and he was fairly certain it was for the same reasons. After all, it hadn't been far from here that they'd had to deal with the Asgardian staff, which had been his fault too. Not directly, of course, but in all the subtle ways. Everything was his fault, from a certain point of view.

He reloaded his gun and shot into the targets again, each one landing a bit shy of the bullseye mark.

A familiar voice sounded behind him, and he flinched. "You're not performing at your best." So that's where May was.

He didn't turn, didn't acknowledge her, couldn't let her know how much he was falling apart. "I'm aware." Acutely aware, in fact. With each missed shot, each centimeter off, he was reminded again and again that it wasn't only his emotions that were caving in. That there was something _wrong, _despite everything. Despite the fact that everything was right, everything was normal.

"If you've been compromised, I need to know." Huh. Subtle of her, but clever. S.H.I.E.L.D. talk for, _If there's something wrong, I'm here to help. _If only Phil could actually convince himself that anyone could fix this. Maybe there had been a point - long ago - when all hope hadn't quite been lost. Perhaps despite the most talented doctors operating on him, despite the futuristic techniques that had been used, they'd forgotten to rescue a part of him when they revived his physical form. Maybe it was when Fury had been stupid enough to give him his own strike team. Whenever that moment had been, when things had gone from bad to worse, he didn't think things were salvageable anymore.

Click. Aim. Shoot. "I'm fine," he lied. Half-lied. Admitted. He wasn't sure anymore. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. He missed again, cursing his failure under his breath. He was better than this. He knew he was. He had to be.

Even without facing her, Phil could see the scoff on May's lips. "You're not."

_I'm not. _The words assaulted his emotional control, pushing the limits of his metaphorical boundaries. Just when he'd gotten the indifferent disguise under his belt, too. Talk about bad timing. But still, what could he say? He couldn't deny it, couldn't affirm it. He couldn't face her, but he couldn't walk away. He couldn't talk; couldn't not. _Frozen. Indecisive. Stupid._ Words whirled through his mind, so fast he couldn't tell anymore whether they were his own or not. _Failure. Emotional. Weak. _The gun clattered to the ground, and he didn't flinch. _What makes you think you can do this? What makes you think you deserve her love? What makes you think you're worthy of being a father? What makes you think you're good enough?_

Then his world, frozen in a reddish, blackish haze of angry tears and inner battles, tilted, and his thoughts spiraled to the ground in the same way he did. He was aware, but he wasn't; feeling the cold tile underneath him, yet his head swooping as if he was falling, infinitely, on repeat. _You know you aren't good enough. You know you aren't strong enough. You know you aren't qualified enough. You know you don't care enough. _His breaths were gasps; his heartbeat pounded in his chest, his scar and his mind throbbing in unison. _Do you deserve to be here, Coulson? You were dead, and they brought you back. Prove that they were right. Prove that you were worth it. Prove that you're not the nothing you are. Prove it, Coulson._

"Coulson."

_Show them, Coulson._

"Phil."

_Be stronger, Coulson. _

"Phil!"

_Be better, Coulson._

"Philip!"

Someone shook him, and his demons receded for the moment, lurking back in the shadows. "May," he whispered. "What...what happened." He didn't think he could muster the strength to add a questioning tone to the word. He tried, shakily, to sit up. And realized almost as fast as he fell back that it wouldn't be happening anytime soon. Not now, anyways, while he was still catching his breath; gasping, trembling, screaming, crying. For all he knew, dying.

"You tell me, Philip." If he didn't know better, he would've have sworn May was angry. Except that he did know better - and the glare, the growl, the lack of eye contact - she wasn't mad. She was scared. For him. And it only made him feel all the more guiltier.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." A broken toy, on repeat. Unnecessary. Useless. Trash. "May," he whispered again, this time his tone hovering dangerously close to a whimper. "May. I - I'm not okay." Tears fell, and he couldn't find the strength to wipe them away. A choked breath interrupted him, as he swallowed the sobs that threatened to escape. "I'm v-very not okay."

In a version of Melinda May that Phil had never met before, a mergence of each relationship he had with her, fused into a one, she lifted him slightly and cradled him on her lap. "I know, Phil. I know."

He cried, violently, childishly, brokenly, while May held him and soothed him in both English and Mandarin. With both soft platitudes and honest reassurances. As both a mother and a wife. A friend, and a partner. Time passed both in slow motion and rapid speed, neither of them sure how long it had been when May suggested that they get up before Skye, Jemma and Fitz got back. He wasn't quite healed enough yet to smile, but he'd liked the phrasing she'd used. _Our kids, _had a nice ring to it, he decided, about the same moment he decided he would attempt standing up.

"What'll you tell them?" he rasped, his voice hoarse from the onslaught of tears. The demons in his mind were creeping back; slowly, but still there. _What did you just do? She'll hate you now. She'll think you're weak. Pathetic._

_Be quiet, _Phil mentally snapped back.

"Can always say you weren't feeling great, went to bed early." She gave him a sidelong glance, taking in his appearance as he struggled to stand. "Not much of a lie, either, is it?" He didn't answer, but May wasn't wrong. His head pounded, protesting against his emotional outburst, his shoulders ached from when he'd fallen and residual nausea still lingered from his mental battle.

He finally got to his feet, shaking, still terrified, and he staggered under the weight of what May must see him as now. _Baby, _the voices didn't hesitate to provide. _Childish. __Worthless._

_Please, _he begged. He couldn't do this again, didn't have the energy - emotionally, mentally, physically - to fight this battle again. _Not now, please don't do this now. Come back some other time._

Someone reached for his arm, grounding him, supporting him, and May's voice dragged him out from the maze in his own head. "Hey, hey, Phil. Stay with me here." He nodded, wondering whether he'd ever have the strength, or the courage, or the will to speak again. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, his own tears. "Easy," May murmured, wrapping her arm around his shoulder and tugging him into a gentle embrace. "I got you, Phil, I got you. I promise, I've got you. You're gonna be okay."

_She's lying, _the voices hissed. _She doesn't want to help you. She's just taking pity on you. So pathetic, for accepting her sympathy. So childish, for needing help. So needy, so clingy._

He pleaded for them to stop, but they refused, singing through the mantra that was all too familiar to him.

_Nobody wants you here, Phil. Nobody needs you. You don't deserve any of them. You don't deserve this._

He leaned into Melinda's hug, revelled in the feeling of her arms encircling him, basked in the assurance of security and protection.

_You aren't good enough. You aren't good enough. You aren't good enough._

Just for once, Phil Coulson let go, let his emotions flow, raw and unchecked, let Melinda May hold him up.

_Nobody cares about you._

For the first time in his life, he didn't quite believe the voices.

_Nobody loves you, Phil._

The demons in his heart rose up to strike again, and he stood with them, to face them.

_You don't deserve to be here, _they taunted.

He clung tighter to Melinda; he cried; he smiled.

_Shut up, _he snapped back, and felt them flee into the darkness.


End file.
